


A Friend is Worth Any Risk

by Yolatirra



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Afghanistan, Bromance, Contest Entry, Except it's Platonic, Friendship, Gen, John's Red Pants, Memories, Middle of the Night Personal Conversations, You Figure it Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 03:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yolatirra/pseuds/Yolatirra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most of the time, John doesn't have time to think about Afghanistan. But a dangerous case reminds him of a lost friend from Afghanistan, and all he has left of his friend is a pair of red pants. So when John can't sleep, Sherlock deduces, and bromance ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Friend is Worth Any Risk

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as an entry for the September fuckyeahjohnlock contest, which had the theme of "John's Red Pants". I figured there would be a majority of Johnlock and smutty entries for the contest, so I thought it would be a fun challenge to write an entirely platonic fic about John's red pants. I'm not sure this is enough about the pants to qualify for the contest, but it seems to have been just what I needed to start pulling me out of my writer's block (which is really just summer laziness). 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy your read. :) If you spot any typos or find an annoying Americanism, let me know and I'll fix it.

Most of the time, John didn't have a chance to think about Afghanistan. Even on days without cases, he was too worried about keeping Sherlock from setting something on fire to spend time remembering.

But tonight... tonight, they'd just finished up a case. It had gone quickly, once Sherlock had found the note under the pillow. They'd managed to find the killer in just a couple of hours. As they cornered him in an alley, John had let down his guard for a moment, just that crucial second, and it had been enough for the man to pull out a gun and aim it squarely at Sherlock's forehead.

Luckily Sherlock was quick, skilled in God knows how many forms of martial arts. Just as John was registering that there was a fucking _gun_ pointed at _Sherlock's head_ , the killer was suddenly on the ground with a broken wrist, writhing in pain, and the gun was twenty feet down the alley. Sherlock was fine, totally unfazed, and he flashed John a grin as he set to work tying the man up.

John had managed to quickly pull himself together, but inside, he'd been shaken.

Now, lying in bed at 3:00 in the morning, he couldn't sleep. It wasn't so much that Sherlock had been in danger. It was definitely not the first time. It wasn't even the first time he'd had a gun pointed at it his head. That had happened half a dozen times in the last fourteen months. It was the way it had happened, how not paying attention had nearly lead to Sherlock's death.

Early on in Afghanistan, John had become friends with a fellow member of his squad, a young man from Kent named Tom. And not just friends in the way that happens when you fight and watch friends die together during a war. They'd had a lot in common. They'd gotten along, had spend their free time together, what little there had been. They'd laughed and shared childhood stories, and cried on each others' shoulders when someone they knew was killed. He'd known it was a bad idea to form a friendship like that in the middle of a war zone, but it had sort of happened without his permission.

One of the first things Tom had told John—quietly, in the middle of the night in a danger zone, trying to pass the time while enemies swarmed around them—was how his boyfriend had come across a pair of red pants and thought it would be a good present for their anniversary. They'd laughed at the story, then the fight had started and John had nearly forgot all about it.

Six months or so after they'd met, Tom died. They'd been raiding a house that was suspected of housing a weapons store room for the local terrorists. John had let his guard down, only for a second, but the next thing he knew Tom was on the ground, a bullet through his head and the life draining out of his eyes.

John had shot Tom's murderer instantly, though he hadn't been able to tell if he'd killed him. Either way, the man had been dead by the time they left, and that was all that mattered to him.

That night, as he sorted though Tom's personal items for things to send home with his body, he found the pair of red pants.

He'd cried then.

The pants had gone back to Tom's boyfriend. Four months later, during John's three weeks of leave in England, the pants showed up in the mail with a letter.

 

_If I keep these around, I'll never move on. You keep them. It's a bit of a weird thing to keep around, I know, but you know what they meant to Tom. You were his closest friend. He wrote to me about you often. I was always glad he had someone to laugh with. Thank you._

_-Brian, a friend through Tom._

 

So John had kept them.

He hadn't let himself form friendships like that since, at least until Sherlock dragged him onto a wild cabby chase through London in the middle of the night. The one person in all the world who could pull him out of his depression and make him feel alive again. His friendship with Sherlock had happened a lot like it had with Tom: suddenly, unintentionally, and against all logical reason. And like with Tom, it felt like a bad idea, but one he couldn't resist.

So when Sherlock had nearly been shot, during that split second when John let down his guard, he was suddenly terrified of loosing his best and only friend, for the second time in his life.

He got out of bed, went over to his dresser and pulled open the top drawer. In the back right corner was a little box, in which he kept all of the items most important to him. He opened it, pulled out the red pants, and sat on the side of his bed. He just felt the fabric, running his fingers along its white edges, wondering at how soft it had become, from so much handling. It was still holding together though, remarkably, as if every touch had been too gentle and careful to do it any harm. If he hadn't known, he'd never have guessed it had spent over a decade in a war zone.

“You can't sleep.”

John jumped, head snapping around to see Sherlock in his doorway, dressed in his blue dressing gown and looking like he'd just stepped out of the shower.

“God, Sherlock, you need to learn to knock.”

Sherlock's mouth quirked in a small smile, but he didn't acknowledge John's admonishment. Instead, he asked, “are you alright? Nightmares?”

“Not exactly.” John sighed, bunching up the pants in one hand and half-turning to face Sherlock. “Memories. Haven't been able to sleep since we got home.”

“Something about tonight's case remind you of Afghanistan.” Sherlock deduced correctly. He looked a bit concerned as he crossed the room and sat next to John. “I noticed that you seemed disturbed to some extent after we apprehended the murderer.”

John huffed out a chuckle. He should have realized that Sherlock would see past his flimsy attempt at acting calm and put-together.

“Someone you were close to was injured in Afghanistan,” Sherlock said, eyes scanning John up and down. “No, killed. Suddenly? Probably. Shot through the head? Yes. It was a long...” he stopped suddenly, looking a little sheepish as he looked at the floor between his feet. “Or would you rather I didn't know?”

John laughed, without much humor. “It doesn't make much difference. You probably know most of it already. I might as well make sure you've got it right. ”

“I get everything right.” Sherlock said immediately, then as he turned back to John, they both chuckled. After a moment, he continued with his deductions. “It was a long time ago, yes?” John nodded. “And those pants you're holding... something he left for you? A gift from him? Was he a past lover?”

John immediately blushed, both at the inaccurate deduction and the fact that he was still holding a pair of pants in his hand. He'd forgotten about that. It must have looked ridiculous. Then again, this was Sherlock, and he probably hadn't registered that this was a strange occurrence, except for the fact that John did not were pants like that. That was a strange thing on it's own though, that his platonic flatmate most likely knew in detail what kind of pants he wore.

After a moment, he managed, “no, no, he wasn't. Just a friend. A good friend.”

Sherlock nodded. “So they are something that meant something to him. Did he want you to have them if he died, or did you obtain them some other way?”

John sighed, unbunching the fabric and smoothing it with his fingers. “Tom's boyfriend—his name was Tom—gave them to him for their anniversary as a sort of joke. Tom kept them with him in Afghanistan, and I sent them back to his boyfriend when Tom was killed. The next time I was in England on leave, his boyfriend sent them back to me, telling me to keep them, so I did.”

The corner of Sherlock's mouth tilted up. “Was I right about how he died?”

John nodded. “But that's not it really. Not what's bothering me, I mean.” He pushed a hand though his hair, sighing again. “Tom and I were supposed to be watching each others' backs. He died because I lost my focus, let my guard down. You know how good of a shot I am, how fast I can pull out a gun and shoot it. If I'd been paying attention, I could have shot the bastard who killed him before he had a chance to aim his gun.”

Sherlock's head tilted back half an inch, in the way that meant he was figuring something out. “So when the murderer aimed his gun at me tonight, you feel like you could have been paying more attention. You're feeling guilty because you didn't react as quickly as you could have, and you keep thinking about what might have happened if I hadn't been able to disarm him.”

John smiled, though it was without humor. “I'm a bit surprised you got that bit. Sentiment and all.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I understand how sentiment works, John. A large part of my deductions are based on it. I just would rather not deal with it personally. It's distracting and dangerous in my profession.”

“Must be nice to be able to turn it off like that.”

Sherlock didn't respond, and after a moment John glance over at him. He looked thoughtful, and a little confused. “What?” John asked.

“Your reactions when I've expressed my opinions on sentiment before have generally been angry, and you always try to counter my argument. You never agree with it.”

John held up an index finger. “I'm not agreeing with you. I think your belief that feelings and emotions are bad is ridiculous and even dangerous in its own way, but everyone has moments when they wish they could stop feeling.”

“You don't wish to stop feeling forever though? Just for a while?”

“Yes. Feeling hurts sometimes, but it's a part of being human, and without it we'd all be psychopaths.”

“Technically, John, psychopaths are capable of feeling, just generally in very different ways and for different reasons than the general population.”

John chuckled. “Yeah, alright smart arse. But do you get my point?”

“Yes.”

John raised his brow.

“Probably not,” Sherlock conceded.

John huffed, smiling wryly. “That's alright. I know by now that you'll never turn on someone and hurt them for your own pleasure. That's enough for me. I don't need you to have feelings all the time like the rest of us, even if I do get bloody angry at you sometimes because of it. It's not who you are. ”

Sherlock gave a huffed laugh and leaned back on his hands. After a moment, he said softly, “thank you. But I do... I do understand what you're feeling now, I think. It's like when you've been in immediate danger, and then after, and I couldn't stop thinking of all the ways it could have gone wrong, all the ways events could have played out differently and ended with you hurt or dead.”

John turned slowly and stared at Sherlock. He knew Sherlock cared about him, of course, with the how he'd acted at the pool, and what he'd said in Baskerville, but he'd never really expected Sherlock to express it in so many words. Even if he hadn't actually said 'I care about you', it was about as close as he'd probably ever get.

Sherlock's eyes flicked towards him. “What?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Being my best friend.”

Sherlock huffed and looked away, but John knew him well enough by now to know that meant “you're welcome”.

“Go get some sleep,” John said, and as Sherlock opened his mouth to protest he held up a hand. “You don't have a case right now, and if you were unoccupied enough to come up here to see if I was still awake, you're not in the middle of something important enough to warrant a whole night awake. Go to sleep. No excuses. And if you don't, I _will_ notice in the morning.”

“Fine.” Sherlock stood, nightgown swaying dramatically as he half-stomped toward the door.

John chuckled. “'Night Sherlock.”

Sherlock stopped at the doorway and said quietly, “goodnight, John,” then disappeared down the stairs.

John turned the red pants over again in his hands, smiling at them now. He folded them carefully, got up and put them back into the box in his dresser, then slipped into his bed and closed his eyes.

It was worth it, he decided. Having a friend like this, it was worth the risk. Any risk.

He would never give it up. Not for anything.

  


End file.
